


Variables

by OutOfAutumn



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, POV Laurent (Captive Prince), Unhappy Ending, implied past CSA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfAutumn/pseuds/OutOfAutumn
Summary: “You have grown up to be so lovely,” Uncle says. ‘Lovely’ rolls off his tongue abruptly, as if the word tastes foul.Laurent swallows. “I thought I wasn't your type anymore.”“My nephew,” Uncle says, “has grown into quite the lovely little slut. Did you honestly think your shameless seduction would go unnoticed? Preening. Wheedling. Practically swooning into Torveld’s arms. It's an embarrassment to this court.”





	Variables

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite things to do is to think up alternative scenarios for my favorite books/characters. Like, what would have happened if one factor had been different? 
> 
> In this one-shot, I was just exploring what Laurent’s plan to overthrow his Uncle could have been had Damen not been sent to Vere as a slave. Though it’s never explicitly stated (unless I missed it), I was always under the impression that Laurent did not begin machinations with the Akielons until he realized he had Prince Damianos under his thumb. Without that advantage, would he have strategized a different way? 
> 
> I don’t like writing super angsty things, but this sort of turned out that way. I can’t throw a blanket over it. 
> 
> WARNING: The Regent is in this, with all of his nasty canon predilections. I don’t go into great detail, but it’s there, so be warned. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” Laurent says. 

Torveld replies, “They pale in comparison to you.”

The party is winding down, but Torveld of Patras either does not notice or does not care. He and his retinue have been in Arles for a week now, hammering out trade negotiations by day, merrymaking by night. Torveld’s idea of merrymaking is apparently just talking to Laurent, despite the vibrant party that thrums through the set of gilded doors at their backs. 

They’ve been standing on this balcony for at least an hour now. The distance between them has been growing smaller and smaller, by no fault of Laurent, whose back is quite tightly pressed into the corner. But Torveld is not being aggressive. In fact, Torveld has been nothing but a perfect gentleman all week, and has touched Laurent only to guide him through crowds or to chastely kiss his knuckles. Laurent’s back is in the corner by his own design. From here, he can see everyone milling around them, scrutinize anyone close enough to eavesdrop.

Torveld’s compliment catches up to him, and he remembers he should laugh. Toss his head. Bat his eyelashes. “You flatter me,” he says. 

“I disagree,” says Torveld, “As does everyone else who’s ever had the fortune of meeting you. Stories of your beauty abound across the countryside.” 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Laurent says. 

“I’d love to meet the man who does not find you dazzling. He must be a blind, hopeless buffoon.” 

Torveld puts his hand on the wall next to Laurent’s head. The gesture crushes a night blossom, a perfectly trumpet-shaped bloom that he had, earlier in the evening, compared to Laurent’s grace. As Laurent is mourning the loss, he sees Torveld tilt his head. Begin to lean in. As if for a--

_ Kiss.  _

Laurent has known all week that it would come down to this. He’s known all week that his plan will not work otherwise. Still his heart jolts, and he stiffens, heat flocking to his face. He only just stops his hands from flying up, as if to ward off a blow. Torveld’s beard will probably be scratchy. Maybe his breath will be foul. Maybe he will-

One of the gilded doors opens, disturbing the rectangle of light that bleeds out onto the balcony. 

“Your uncle wants you,” says a needling voice. 

Torveld jerks back, revealing the intruder. 

Normally, Nicaise is bitter about being relegated to the task of transmitting news. Tonight, his face is uncharacteristically free of paint, and he wears a thin smile. That smile is a reflection of what he just discovered here. What he  _ thinks  _ he just discovered here. What he will certainly report back to Uncle. 

Nevertheless, Laurent exhales silently, feeling his shoulders fall. “Nicaise,” he breathes. “Tell him I’ll be along shortly.”

“Better not take too long,” his uncle’s pet sneers. “The party was supposed to have ended half an hour ago. He said I’d probably find you this way, dallying like a whore.” 

Laurent sees Torveld flinch from the corner of his eye. He speaks before Torveld can act on some chivalrous instinct to defend his honor.

“Where's your paint?” Laurent asks. 

Nicaise recoils. His eyes flicker between Torveld and Laurent, probably wondering if Torveld understands the weight of that question. Brat or not, he must know how unhappy the Regent will be if his true predilections are revealed and his trade negotiations compromised.

“I think he’s mad at you,” Nicaise finally says. “I hope you’re in trouble.” Then he storms back inside, the jewels in his hair sparkling in the starlight. 

Torveld makes a disgusted gesture at the doors. “Whose son is that?” he asks. “I’d like to have a word with the man who lets his son get away with speaking to his Prince in that manner.”

Laurent doesn’t know if he should be charmed by Torveld’s naivete, or nauseated by it. “He means no harm.” 

“Such effrontery would never be allowed in Bazal.” A pause. “You deserve better.” 

There's a lingering silence, and Laurent can tell Torveld longs to finish what he started before the interruption. He has not placed his hand back on the wall next to Laurent’s head, but he is looking at Laurent’s mouth. His eyes are ebbing amber orbs. 

Laurent moves out of the corner, forcing Torveld back a step. “It  _ is _ getting rather late.”

For a moment Torveld’s lips move without sound, as though he might argue. “Of course,” he eventually says. He bunches his fists in his tunic, perhaps to dry sweat, perhaps to restrain some sort of impulse. “I’d hate for your uncle to be displeased with you on my account.”

Laurent knows what he would ordinarily say:  _ Oh, never. Not my dear Uncle.  _ Anything to maintain the facade of a sweet, doting uncle. Anything to prevent the notion that Laurent will not be alive to ascend the throne, if said uncle can help it. Anything to avoid toppling his carefully cultivated plan. 

But Torveld looks a little stiff, a little hurt. That does not bode well for his plan, either. 

“Every mote of displeasure is worth another thirty minutes with you,” Laurent says, stepping forward. His heart jumps into his throat, but he forces himself to take another step, until his chest is less than an inch from Torveld’s. 

Torveld looks down at him and smiles. He is a handsome man. More than twice Laurent’s age, but the years have been good to him, enhanced him like aged wine.

“Nonsense,” Torveld says. He takes Laurent’s hand, capsuling it in warmth. Then his eyes go back to Laurent’s mouth. 

This is when it will happen. This is when Torveld will  _ kiss _ him. Laurent stops breathing, feels a wad of hot air burning in his chest. 

Torveld leans in. His lips land on Laurent’s cheekbone, where he presses the lightest of kisses, warm and moist. His beard is, indeed, scratchy.  

“Go to your Uncle,” he says, squeezing Laurent’s hand before releasing it. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

It’s an odd statement. Laurent recognizes that even as he stands before Torveld, catching his breath. Though they have indeed spent every night together this week, they have never bothered to be so specific about it, because their ability to meet depends on whatever Uncle has planned for the next day. Tomorrow he might decide they should hunt at Chastillon, a much smaller keep that will not allow for these clandestine meetings. Tomorrow he might decide the Patrans should leave. He is frustratingly unpredictable. 

Instead of voicing any of this, Laurent smiles, making sure to angle his head in a way that makes flattering use of the light. 

“Tomorrow night,” Laurent says, turning for the doors. “Every second until then will be agony.” 

  
  


******

 

Uncle is not in the banquet hall. Uncle is not in the throne room. Uncle is in his privy chamber, which is odd, and foreboding. Laurent has not been invited here since he was fifteen. Not since he . . . 

He suddenly feels a little nauseous. 

There is a gaggle of servants milling about, turning down the bed and stoking the fire. His uncle is sitting in a chair before said fire, his feet propped up on an ornate wooden stool, his robe draped over the back of the chair. He is still laced into his court clothing.

At the sound of Laurent’s boots on the tile, he looks up. “Laurent.” 

“Uncle.” Laurent kneels for the obligatory few seconds, knee glancing the floor. “You sent for me?”

“Why do you hesitate at the doorway like a commoner? Come sit before the fire, Nephew.” 

Uncle most definitely knows why he is hesitating. But Laurent himself doesn’t realize he is until Uncle points it out. He swallows back the nausea and steps forward, lifting his chin, setting his shoulders back. He walks into his uncle’s chambers - the  _ King’s  _ chambers - as if they are his own. He takes the chair next to his uncle’s. Crosses his legs. Makes himself lean back against the fire-warmed wood. 

“There is a matter we must discuss in private,” Uncle says. His bracelets clank as he lifts a hand and makes a shooing gesture.

Laurent watches the servants trail out of the room. He is stricken by an irrational impulse to call them back, but he forces it down. It feels as though a cloud of noxious gas billows in after them, filling the empty space, making it hard to breathe. 

Uncle’s words glide through the silence like a crocodile in a bog. “Torveld of Patras has asked for your hand in marriage.” 

It hits like a punch in the stomach. Laurent has to hold his breath to keep from gasping. 

He’d spent all his time worried about eavesdroppers. About  _ Nicaise.  _ But apparently-

Laurent channels all of this reaction into his toes, which are quite hidden within his boots. He curls them hard, until his feet cramp up, until his calves start to ache.  

He manages to steady his voice as he asks, “And your answer?”

The answer will be  _ no, _ because promising Laurent to another man will mean that Uncle will lose much of his control over him. The answer will be  _ no,  _ because putting a Patran army behind Laurent’s back is too risky for a man who hopes to usurp the throne in ten months. The answer will be  _ no,  _ because Torveld of Patras looks at Laurent like he would give him the world, and Uncle does not want Laurent to have the world. 

The answer will be  _ no,  _ for all the reasons Laurent wants it to be  _ yes. _

“You have grown up to be so lovely,” Uncle says, diverting around his question. ‘Lovely’ rolls off his tongue abruptly, as if the word tastes foul.

Laurent swallows. “I thought I wasn't your type anymore.” 

“My nephew,” Uncle says, “has grown into quite the lovely little slut. Did you honestly think your shameless seduction would go unnoticed? Preening. Wheedling. Practically swooning into Torveld’s arms. It's an embarrassment to this court.”

“Dear Uncle, I’m afraid you've been misinformed. Some of us don't have to go to such lengths to entice a lover.” Laurent glances at a silk robe hanging on its peg next to the fire, sized for Nicaise’s little body. “Or buy them.” 

“Don’t try to deny it. I’ve heard it from more than one confidante.”

“And yet you wait until he’s already asked for my hand to warn me away. Tell me which one of us is more cruel?” 

There is no immediate retort. It’s enough to make Laurent feel a little triumphant, until he glances at Uncle’s profile. Uncle is looking at the fire, which paints shifting molten shapes over his plump, bearded cheeks. He is smiling a little. 

The crackling fire nearly drowns Uncle out as he says, “It is refreshing to see that, for once, our ideologies are aligned.” 

The words are so unexpected that Laurent thinks he must have misheard them. “Beg pardon?”

“A marriage to Torveld of Patras will be quite advantageous to this realm. Patras holds a strategic position on the Dorthel River. They are allies with Akielos, which will provide access to resources we would otherwise never have.” 

“Uncle, I-” 

“Patras has many charming customs that I would like to see adopted in our own court. And, as you're aware, Torveld was an acquaintance of your late brother. Auguste spoke very fondly of him.” 

Auguste’s name forces Laurent into an agonized silence, which Uncle was probably counting on. Auguste is, after all, the reason Laurent decided he should pursue Torveld in the first place. 

_ Torveld is a great man, _ Auguste had once said. It was the last time the Patrans came to Vere before Auguste’s death. Before everything went to hell.  _ He has a kind soul and a good head. A rare combination in any man, let alone a prince.  _

Of course, Auguste never intended for his younger brother to marry Torveld. In fact, Auguste had been very supportive of Laurent’s ambition to never marry, and instead spend his life as an advisor in his big brother’s court. But now Auguste is dead, and Uncle is Regent, and Laurent is living on borrowed time. Ten months until his ascension. Ten months for Uncle to make his move.

Laurent knows a marriage to Torveld of Patras would make it very tricky for Uncle to act against him, without evoking the wrath of the Patran army. Laurent had planned to suggest elopement to Torveld. He’d planned to suggest it a few days ago, when it first became apparent that Torveld was smitten with him. Laurent has never had to try hard to attract attention, but with Torveld it was almost  _ too  _ easy. It felt like swindling a child who didn't know any better. 

Laurent’s only solace was in knowing that, by marrying Torveld, he was granting him the right to rule Vere alongside him someday. He was giving him a kingdom to rule, whereas he would otherwise never have one. A kingdom in exchange for a politically convenient marriage to a man who only pretended to love him. It seemed a very generous trade. 

Yet, he’d miscalculated. He should have known that Torveld would approach his uncle for permission first. He is, after all, a complete gentleman. 

And if Uncle is agreeing to the marriage, that means it’s dangerous. That means there is some sort of machination behind it. 

“The wedding will be six months from now,” Uncle says, yanking Laurent back into the present. He’s been staring into the fire for so long that his eyeballs feel like they’ve been rolled in salt. “The ceremony will occur here, in Arles. But prior to, you must spend some time in Bazal, getting acquainted with the Patran court. You will depart with the delegation two days from now and return a few weeks before the-”

Laurent curls his toes even harder, trying to quash the urgency from his voice. “Uncle.” 

“Yes, Nephew?” 

“A few days of harmless flirtation does not convey a desire for marriage.” He wants to say more, but bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself. He knows he has a tendency to ramble when he’s uneasy. 

“You are not amenable to this arrangement?” Uncle asks, in a fluty tone of utmost innocence. 

“It isn't a question of amenability.” Laurent uncrosses and recrosses his legs, giving himself time to form an argument. It isn’t hard; he’s already more than exhausted the pros and cons of marrying Torveld. “It is a question of timing.” 

Uncle shrugs, as though this is a factor he has already considered and discarded. “You just turned twenty. Many princes are already wedded and bedded by now.”

“My ascension is but ten months away,” Laurent counters. “The Council will want to focus on that, not a wedding ceremony. And they will want to wait, to see what other opportunities-” 

“The Council has already approved the marriage.” 

It’s as though a marble slab has been dropped in Laurent’s path. His undershirt begins to cling to his back, stomach, and sides. Luckily, his Prince’s garment hides this from Uncle’s view. Yet he can tell by Uncle’s posture - relaxed shoulders, smug smile - that this will not go in his favor. There will be an answer to every argument he raises. An obstruction in every path. 

He has been outmatched. 

“I am the future King,” Laurent says. “It is my right to decide when and to whom I will wed.” 

“You are the future King,” Uncle concedes, “Yet you are also my ward, and you have not yet come of age, therefore it is my duty to decide the best interests of the kingdom. Our best interests lie with Patras.” 

“There is no way you can know that until I am King. There is no way to judge the political climate. Kempt did not offer Mother’s hand until Father took the throne. Who’s to say that a similarly beneficial alliance will not raise its head?” 

“My dear nephew,” Uncle says. “Are you suggesting that our best interests may lie with another kingdom? Perhaps . . .  Akielos?” 

It has the same gut-wrenching effect as mentioning Auguste’s name. Except this time, Laurent manages to croak out one word:  “No.”

“Prince Damianos is not so much older than you. Much younger than Torveld, and rumored to be twice as handsome.” Uncle pauses and strokes his beard, the way he always does when he’s deep in thought. Or feigning it. “You’re right. Our relations may be hostile, but who’s to say Theomedes would not want you for his son once you take the throne? Such an alliance would certainly be quite beneficial on both sides. An Akielon prince on Vere’s throne. A Veretian prince on Akielos’s.” 

“No,” Laurent blurts. “I will not marry an Akielon. I will not-” 

_ Marry into the family that killed my father and brother.  _ He bites the words off, because he does not think he can say them without his voice going rough. And he’s already said enough.  _ Too much.  _

Uncle usually cannot provoke him so. But it’s this moment. This  _ room.  _ He can see the bed out of the corner of his eye. He can see the glass door that leads into the private bath. He can see all the stains of a past he’d rather forget, and the subtle remnants of an ongoing nightmare for Nicaise. The tiny robe. A glass of water, the rim spotted with gold paint. 

It is, of course, why Uncle chose this room. 

Laurent rises to his feet. He must think, but he cannot do it here. He turns his back and heads for the door.

“So, shall I send an emissary to Akielos?” Uncle asks. “Or are we in agreement about Torveld?” 

Laurent doesn't answer, because there’s no point. Uncle wants him to go to Patras. Uncle has, apparently, been planning this for some time. Laurent was careful, so careful during his flirtations with Torveld. There is no way that anyone other than Nicaise could have seen. There was no way that anyone could have guessed what he planned to do. 

Perhaps Uncle didn’t know, either, until Torveld approached him. But that hardly matters now. 

Laurent closes Uncle’s door gently behind him. The hallways are skeletal this time of night, populated only by an assortment of statuary guards. The chandeliers aren’t even lit. Laurent walks gracefully beneath them, through beams of moonlight that bleed through the spire-topped windows on either side of the hall. He enters his own apartments. Crosses his presence chamber. Enters his bedroom, closes the door quietly behind him, and presses his back against the carved wood. He slides down it until he is sitting on the floor, staring across the room at the blue starburst canopy that surrounds his bed. 

His heart jackknifes against his ribs. A scream bulges at the base of his throat. He grabs a discarded robe from the floor, buries his face into it, and releases the scream into the precious Kemptian silk. 

He screams until his lungs wilt. It isn’t enough. He reaches atop the gilded vanity mirror beside him, gropes around, and throws the first vial of something-or-rather that his fist closes on. The iridescent bottle sails across the room in a tumbling arc and shatters at the base of his bed, releasing a pile of goopy, pearl-colored liquid. That isn’t enough, either. 

Nothing is enough to restrain the infuriating truth: Uncle has won. He presses his face into his knees. 

Uncle says the wedding will be in six months. That is a lie. There will be no wedding. 

Laurent will not make it out of Patras alive, if Uncle can help it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know the ending seems abrupt, but that's honestly where my imagination left it (and I'm terrible at endings). 
> 
> Now I'm going to go write something happy. :(


End file.
